


Just a Friend

by Defira



Series: Kink in the Armor [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2333192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As part of the Kink in the Armor writing relay, I was given the fourth prompt: Dorian gives Cullen the Talk</p>
<p>Dorian finds himself immensely protective of Amala Trevelyan, and he knows well enough that attraction between a mage and a templar is a doomed and painful affair for all involved. So when she begins to spend greater amounts of time with her military councilor, Dorian takes it upon himself to intervene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Friend

“What are your intentions?”

Cullen glanced up from his desk, where he was in the middle of a report assessing Skyhold’s weapons production. Dorian stood just inside the doorway to his office, arms crossed and jaw clenched, an unpleasant energy radiating from him just enough to set Cullen’s teeth on edge. Whether Pavus knew he was projecting such an aura and was doing it deliberately to irritate him, well... the two of them didn’t precisely see eye to eye, so he wouldn’t have put it past him. 

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Cullen looked back down at his desk and kept on writing. “I am intending to make our armory and blacksmithing facilities more efficient,” he said, very pointedly answering the question incorrectly. “Whether or not I succeed at my endeavour depends on whether or not I am left in peace to complete my recommendations in a timely fashion.”

“Don’t play daft,” Dorian snapped, kicking the door closed with his foot and stalking forward. He planted his hands on the desk, and with huffed sigh of frustration Cullen set down his quill and looked up at him. “I’m _talking_ about Amala.” 

Cullen had known precisely what had the mage in such a mood, but that still didn’t stop him from bristling in resentment when it was stated aloud. He folded his hands together before him on the desk as calmly as possible- he congratulated himself on it, actually- and levelled Dorian with what he hoped was a cold stare. “And I was _not_ ,” he said. “Because, you see, anything that Inquisitor Trevelyan and I share in private is precisely that- _private_.” 

“So you’re obtuse as well as pig-headed?” Dorian said as he pushed off the desk, a sneer on his face as he turned and paced moodily away. He was agitated, jittery- if Cullen didn’t know better, he’d say there was a modicum of nerves in his performance. “You know as well as I that I’m not asking for the particulars of your relationship- I’m simply asking you to explain yourself.”

“The only one I have to explain myself to is her,” Cullen said, taking no small satisfaction in the way Dorian fixed him with a withering glare. He sat back in the chair and spread his hands wide. “Unless you feel you deserve special consideration in all of our personal encounters?”

Dorian rolled his eyes towards the roof, hands on his hips as he stalked the room. “I would warn her away from you if she were not so _smitten_ ,” he said, his lip curling in disgust at the mere suggestion of it. 

“Why, Master Pavus, anyone would think you overcome with jealousy if they did not know you better.”

He froze, pivoting on his heel to face him, an incredulous expression on his face. “Excuse me?”

“I said-”

“I heard what you said, _General_ ,” he spat, the title an insult instead of an honorific. “What, you assume I can’t show concern for the welfare of someone I care about, simply because they are a woman? You assume I am incapable of treasuring a woman simply because I have no interest in bedding her?” He looked disgusted. “Poor form, general. My investment in an individual is not measured by how greatly I desire them.”

Cullen’s face burned, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologise. “Then, pray tell, why exactly you think it any of your business how much time I spend with Amala?”

“I _care_ about her,” Dorian said, crossing over to the desk again and stabbing a finger towards Cullen’s chest. “And I care about her emotional wellbeing enough to fear that you will do far more damage to her soul than you think.”

Cullen surged to his feet. “How _dare_ you?”

Dorian didn’t even flinch at his show of anger. “I don’t need to have grown up confined within the walls of one of your barbaric towers to know the threat that a templar poses to a mage-”

“I am not a templar any longer!”

Dorian waved his hand irritably. “Semantics, my dear general. You have been present at not one, but _two_ of the three Annulments to take place in this Age, and you presided over one of the most brutal installations for mages on this continent. You have advocated for harsher controls against us, and Varric has regaled me with tales of some of your more pointed remarks during your tenure as Knight Captain.”

Cullen’s hands were fists at his sides, clenched so tight that he could feel his arms straining. “I am not that man any longer,” he hissed, “and I would thank you, of all people, not to hold me to my past- _Magister_.”

Dorian drew himself up, his body language stiff and harsh. “I’ll show myself out, I think,” he said, barely restrained fury in his voice. 

It only took three days for the tables to be turned. 

Dorian was reading in the library when he heard the sound of armoured feet clinking against the stone. Skyhold was a busy place, and it could have been any number of people- none of whom had to be looking for him, precisely- but he felt the niggling pull of inevitability as the footsteps drew closer to his private corner. 

Amala had no plans to leave the Keep for at least the next week and a half, and had declared them all in need of leisure time to replenish their spirits. There could not possibly be anyone seeking him out, he told himself, staring pointedly down at the book before him and the jumble of scrawled notes on the parchment beside it. There was absolutely no way that-

“Pavus.”

He was surprised he didn’t snap his quill in two, so forceful was his grip. He had taken great pains to avoid General Cullen since their confrontation, and he had even made his apologies to Amala just the evening before. He hadn’t wanted to risk endangering his friendship with her if she should happen to pick up on the reason for his mood. 

“Dorian, I must- I’m _sorry_ , alright?”

Dorian didn’t look up. “What do you want,” he said flatly, not a question in the slightest so much as a thinly veiled desire for him to leave. 

Cullen slid into the chair opposite, leaning across the table. “I need your advice.”

Dorian quite pointedly licked his finger and turned the page of his book slowly, still not looking up. “Interesting,” he said, sounding utterly uninterested. “I do believe you expressed a ‘ _desire to see the Fade consume all life and hope_ ’ before you’d deign to speak to me again.”

“I will listen to your tiresome ‘ _I told you so_ ’ for the next decade without complaint,” Cullen said, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his face into his hands, “if I can only beg for Amala’s sake that you hear me out.”

Sighing, Dorian set down his quill and looked across the table at him, a pained expression on his face. “For her,” he said bluntly. “What is it that you want?”

Cullen looked rather haggard, his hair askew as if he had been running his hands through it constantly for some time now. “Amala has asked me to visit her chambers this evening,” he blurted out, sounding a great deal more distressed by this revelation than he ought. 

Dorian stared at him, waiting for something else to follow the announcement. When nothing was forthcoming, he said “And? Am I to congratulate you? Do you perhaps require ceremonial rosewater sprinkled over the sheets while a trumpet plays outside the door?”

He was rewarded by a choking noise from Cullen, who had turned a painful shade of red at his words. “Maker’s Breath, you can’t-” He recovered himself with some difficulty, though the blush in his cheeks did not fade. “Can you be serious for two minutes?”

“I am being serious. I have no idea what you could possibly expect me to answer to such an ambiguous statement- have you come to gloat, to point out that she has accepted your suit ahead of my cautions?”

“No, it’s just that...” Cullen ran a hand through his hair, proving Dorian’s earlier suspicions to be correct. Dorian waited, a not quite patient look on his face as he stared at him.

He had no reason to make this easy on him, and no desire to either. His affections towards Amala only went so far- and they certainly did not extend to her woeful paramour. 

“I haven’t really, well...”

Dorian sat back in alarm, abruptly uncomfortable. “If you are seeking information on how best to pleasure a woman, messere, you would be better served speaking to almost _anyone else_ in this damnable Keep.” He almost spat the words, folding his arms stiffly to hide the way they were shaking with anger.

Cullen blinked at him in confusion, and then horror set in in his features. “What, oh- no! I didn’t mean-”

“And if you are even more foolish than I had assumed and are stupid enough to think that I would be of assistance simply because Amala is in possession of a penis and I-”

“Maker’s Breath, _shut up!_ ” Cullen snarled, panic in his eyes. “I meant _nothing_ of the sort, and that you would even... how could you even think I would be so callously naive, to _either_ of you?” 

That answer pulled him up short, and Dorian felt the fire in him go out. He held Cullen’s gaze coolly, taking in the wild eyed uneasiness in him. “I apologize,” he said finally, settling back in the chair with caution. “I have encountered a great deal of bigotry in my time, and, well... it would not be the first time I have heard that particular line of questioning.”

Cullen looked mortified. “She is a _woman_ ,” he said, still clearly confused. “I couldn’t care if she had a dragon beneath her robes, I would still-” He paused, thinking, and then blushed again. “Alright, I would probably be concerned if she were to be concealing a dragon beneath her robes, but I- I _care_ for her. A great deal, in fact, and I...”

Dorian waited.

“I... apologize if I came across as insensitive,” Cullen said, grimacing as if frustrated by his own awkwardness. “I am well aware that... that your own, er... tastes do not-”

“Andraste’s Blood, spare me your clumsy inability to talk like an adult,” Dorian sighed, tossing his quill to the side and scrubbing at his face tiredly. “Spit it out, man- what do you need my advice for?”

Cullen cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I know that you have been involved in at least one long term relationship- or, at least, that’s what I’ve been lead to believe by Amala, and I was more curious about how you-” He made a noise of frustration. “How you knew.”

“How I knew what?”

“ _Anything_ ,” Cullen said desperately. “What was _right_ , how to put words to the immensity of feelings within you, how to- how to let them know that you would give anything, _anything_ , to make sure that they never had reason to doubt you and that they only knew happiness.”

Dorian blinked.

Clearly a little stunned by his own honesty, Cullen reddened again. “Or, you know,” he said clumsily, “something along those lines, perhaps.”

Dorian stared at him, and finally sighed. “Damn you for your puppy eyed sincerity,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Maker’s Breath, you truly do care for her, don’t you?”

“More than I can say.”

“This does not make us friends,” Dorian said pointedly, shaking his finger at him. “I can appreciate the fact that you make her happy, and I am grudgingly willing to be on more amiable terms, but we are not friends.”

“I can accept that.”

Dorian sighed again, torn between grinning in amusement and groaning in frustration. “Very well then. Where should I begin?”

***

He ate his supper alone in his quarters, although his stomach was a little unsettled by nerves as he ate; he took his time to shave, smoothing the razor over his neck slowly until he was satisfied by what he saw in the looking glass. He fussed for far longer than he should have over what to wear, berating himself for overthinking the evening and then berating himself further for presuming that Amala’s invitation was at all an invitation for sex.

He would be perfectly content if she had simply summoned him for his company, and so he would dress in a manner befitting a woman of her station. He did, however, stop himself with a silent admonition when he caught himself wondering whether he should stop to have his boots shined, and what cravat would be appropriate, if any. 

Fool of a man- overthinking would be the death of him.

Dressed simply and fed adequately, he finally locked his quarters behind him and set out for the wing of the keep she had taken up residence in, nodding politely to those he passed in the halls and telling himself that no, everyone did _not_ know about his plans for the evening, and they certainly weren’t giggling and gossiping the moment he turned the corner. 

When he came upon her door, it took him a few moments to find the courage to knock, his knees near to shaking from nerves. 

There was a scrabbling sound on the other side of the door the instant his knuckles touched the wood, and after blinking in confusion he realised in relief that she had been _waiting_ for him, and the sound was her rushing to unlock the door- was she just as anxious as he?

The door cracked open an inch, and through the tiny gap he could see golden skin and long, dark lashes framing a single eye that was just as dark. There was a sound of delight and the door was thrown open, and Amala stood before him in-

_Sweet merciful Maker._

“Come inside,” she said, taking him by the wrist and pulling him into the room, closing the door behind him just as quickly as she’d opened it. He could smell the vanilla she’d used in her bathwater, and he was almost overcome with the urge to bury his face in the curve of her neck and just breathe her in. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and still damp- she usually styled it so carefully, very particular about her appearance and her presentation, and while she was striking throughout the daylight hours, her beauty immaculate and carefully arranged, it was something else entirely to see her like this in private.

It was humbling, in a way, to be trusted with her heart in such a way- he knew it meant a great deal that she would allow herself to be so open with him. 

She was wearing a dark red silk robe, swirling floral patterns in the fabric drawing his gaze, the hemlines trimmed with matching red lace. Between her loosened tresses and the robe and the vanilla scent of her hanging in the air, he felt light headed already. 

“I didn’t think you would come,” she said breathlessly, wringing her hands together nervously as she took a step backwards to give him space. A moment passed and then her eyes widened in dismayed horror. “Oh! I mean, not that I mean- of course I didn’t mean-”

“Amala,” he said gently, biting the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing.

“I wasn’t meaning _orgasm!_ ” she blurted out, then pressed her hands to her mouth in horror. 

He couldn’t help it- he laughed. At her dismayed look he reached for her, taking her hands in his. “Amala,” he said, “please, don’t fret. I’m just happy to be here.”

She looked doubtful for a moment, chewing on her lip nervously; he took that as an opportunity to be suave, putting one hand under her chin and turning her face up towards his, bending down to kiss her softly on the mouth. She trembled noticeably, sighing quietly and leaning closer to him. Through the thin fabric of the robe, he could feel her hardening against his leg, and he was delighted.

Well at least _that_ had gone better than he had hoped. 

He did not want to presume overly, however, so he pulled away after a moment. Amala made a whining sound and tried to chase his mouth with hers, but he laughed and pulled back. “You look lovely this evening,” he murmured, reaching up to run his fingers through her hair. Her eyes were glazed as she leaned into his touch, letting him play for a moment. “That robe is lovely.”

“Do you like it?” she asked, stepping back and taking hold of the skirt, turning this way and that as she inspected it. “Vivienne helped me to choose it. She said the colour suited me and that-” She blushed abruptly, glancing downwards. “That silk and lace are always appropriate when you are expecting company.”

“It’s lovely,” he said, taking her hand and gently tugging her forward again. His eloquence appeared determined to abandon him in his moment of need. “Not- not nearly as lovely as you, though.”

He needed to find another word- _any other word, Maker please_ \- than lovely. Surely his vocabulary was still intact, even if his senses were not?

She giggled nervously. “You’re just saying that to be kind,” she said, biting her lip as she glanced up at him. 

“Well, I do like being kind to you,” he said awkwardly, “but it’s also the truth.”

Amala reached up and took his face between her hands, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him firmly. Surprised at her boldness, it took him a moment to overcome the pleasant shock, moving his hands to her hips and tentatively taking hold of her. Her hardness pressed against his leg, and he felt his own cock stirring in response. 

She kissed with a ferocity that surprised him, her mouth eager and perhaps a little unpractised, but her delight in him was contagious, and he found himself smiling in return as he followed her lead. When she broke away for a moment to catch her breath, he tried to mimic her boldness, sliding one hand between them to rub at her through the robe. Her whimpering sigh made him grin.

“We don’t have to do anything at all,” he said, running his fingers down her cheek with his free hand. “If you would rather just have my company this evening, I would be honoured to offer it to you.”

Her gaze sharpened, a hunger in her eyes. “Oh, but I want to try everything,” she said breathlessly, glancing down at his mouth. She licked her own in lips, almost tauntingly. “If that suits you, of course.”

Cullen groaned when he felt her hand mirroring his own, stroking him firmly through his breeches. “Someone once told me that the best way to show someone you love them is to help them find happiness in whatever way possible.”

“Oh? And who was that?”

“Just a friend,” he said, smiling as he leaned in to kiss her. 

She let him kiss her, whimpering against his mouth. “And do you love me, Cullen?”

“I’d very much like to, if that would make you happy.”

Amala giggled, taking his hand and leading him towards the bedroom. “Then let’s prove your friend correct then, shall we?”


End file.
